


as is rio

by ascience



Category: Football RPF, Men's Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: German National Team, Germany U21, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 16:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12258354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascience/pseuds/ascience
Summary: It’s Julian’s birthday, and he’s standing in front of his microwave watching the seconds count down until the water for his tea is boiling.





	as is rio

It’s Julian’s birthday, and he’s standing in front of his microwave watching the seconds count down until the water for his tea is boiling.

It sounds sadder than it is - his family has arranged something for next week, he got plenty of well-wishes in training today and his evening is all planned out with the match on TV - but it’s certainly not something to brag about either.

Just when the microwave dings and Julian takes the mug out of it, the doorbell rings as well. Startled by the sound, he accidentally pours a couple of drops of hot water over his hand and curses, as he hurries to the door while rubbing the red spot on his skin.

He’s not expecting anyone, so when he swings open the door with his unharmed hand, he’s assuming it might be an overly motivated teammate or one of the neighbours, but it’s neither.

Quite far from it, actually.

“Hey,” Serge says. “Happy Birthday.”

“That’s - what - uh, thanks,” Julian replies, staring dumbfoundedly at the unexpected sight in front of his doorstep. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s your birthday.” Serge shrugs like that explains it. “So, happy birthday. Getting old, dude.”

“You’re older than me,” Julian objects automatically, before he can stop his mouth. “Are you - Did you seriously come here all the way from Bremen?”

“I was around,” - Julian can easily tell this is a lie - “I would have called ahead, but then I was already on my way and I was afraid you’d say no.” Serge laughs, but it sounds a tad unsure as he says it with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans jacket. “You going to invite me in, or nah?”

Julian can feel himself blush, which he hates because it means his whole face, including ears, is going to turn bright red. Like a warning light, Serge had said at the Olympics when the sun added an even worse tint. White boy, he also loved to say.

“Whatever,” Julian grumbles and steps aside to let Serge in. 

Serge showing up is surprising, but great. No, not just great, _terrific_ , and it feels a little like an unexpected birthday present.  
Julian didn’t even know for sure that Serge thought about him outside of the coincidental tournament and call-up.The doubt is pointless and stupidly heart-ache based, but Brazil feels too close in time and too far away in distance to push it entirely from his mind.  
It had been easy to be friends when they had had rooms just across the hall from each other, but back in Germany not just the weather was a little colder.

(Max had told Julian to just go for it, but then again, what did he know? Max should have been happy when he became captain, but he wasn’t, and it was obvious to everyone except Leon as to why.)

In Julian’s hallway, Serge toes off his shoes and immediately steers into the living room without having to ask, even though he’s only visited Julian here once before.

Julian stumbles after him, quickly checking in his head whether he might have anything embarrassing lying around, like a framed picture of Serge. He doesn’t own anything like that  _ of course _ , but somehow that barely helps with his jitters.

Oblivious to Julian’s worries, Serge settles on the couch and looks up at him.

“So,” he says, “no big party for you today?”

“No, I’m saving it for next week. Today’s just my date with my TV and Cristiano Ronaldo.”

Serge squints for a second, before he understands and nods.  
“Ronaldo, huh? You up for watching the match together?” he asks, ducking his head, like Julian has any chance to say no when Serge came here just for him, and when it’s  _ Serge _ .

“I can’t really send you away now, can I?” Julian mock-grimaces and Serge grins back, all teeth. “Uh, do you want tea? I was making myself some before you came in.”

“Tea?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just-- Is that how you did this to yourself?” Serge asks and, without warning, takes hold of Julian’s hand to point out the red-ish patch on it. His thumb lightly grazes over the skin innocuously, and fuck, Julian is blushing again when his eyes meet Serge’s looking up at him.

“Maybe,” Julian replies too quickly, tugs his hand away and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans. “Is peppermint tea good?”

Serge only slowly lowers his hand again, then he smiles. “Yeah, of course. Peppermint is great.”

Julian doesn’t want to say that he flees into the kitchen, but it describes the situation pretty well. How pathetic is that? Serge held his hand, nothing more. Julian had learned to be okay with Serge even putting his head on his thigh in training camp, but apparently he’s just not used to the touch anymore.  
Julian isn’t fourteen, for god’s sake, but here he’s still holding onto the kitching counter trying not give in to the urge to spontaneously die.

He takes a deep breath to pull himself out of it, mechanically puts another mug of water into the microwave and pulls a tea bag out of the box. Might as well try to enjoy Serge being here.

While the microwave whirrs, Julian checks his phone.

_ where are we getting drunk today?  _ Bernd has posted in the group chat, followed quickly by  _ joking, joking _ , before anyone can object that despite Julian’s birthday, they do still have training tomorrow. Some of the others have replied with several emojis.

_ plan w/o me _ , Julian types quickly,  _ maybe after weekend,  _ and with barely a second of delay Kevin posts the smiley with the suggestive face. Julian rolls his eyes and puts his phone away. Idiots.

This time, Julian is more careful balancing the two mugs of tea back to the living room as not to spill anything again.

He stops before he enters the room, though, because he can see Serge sitting on his couch through the half-open door.

Serge has slid down the backrest a little, getting swallowed by the collar and hood of his white hoodie. He’s tapping his foot while fiddling with his phone in one hand, and Julian can tell he’s just mindlessly opening and closing apps one after another. It’s a stupid thing to think, but the image of Serge in his living room looks right to Julian, and for a very embarassing reason he wishes it was more familiar. That Serge felt at home here.

He pushes the door fully open with one shoulder and sets the mugs down on the table in front of the couch.

“Thank you,” Serge says and sits back up, straightens his back. “Where’s your dog by the way?”

Julian is a little suprised by the question. “Nala? Uhm, at my parents’ place.”

“Oh, too bad.”

“And here I was thinking you might not only be here to see her.”

“Of course I’m here to see you,” Serge says reassuringly, grin on his face. “Mostly.”

“I have photos of her, if you want to see,” Julian offers, immediately embarrassed about his excitement. “She’s grown a lot. She can reach up the kitchen counter now.”

Serge looks at him beaming, until Julian takes out his phone to pull up photos of Nala as a pretense to look away. Serge leans in close to follow Julian scrolling through the pics and  _ awww _ s at the right moments. It’s a bit of torture to have him so close that Julian can feel his muscles moving at his side, but he’s not about to have a break-down over it again. They’re friends, it’s cool, Julian’s totally cool.

“I have to come back when she’s here. You gotta invite me more, bro,” Serge says when they’ve looked at all photos at least twice.

Julian’s glad that he’s spared from answering, because Serge himself points out that the match is about to start. Julian takes a deep breath and settles back on the couch with his mug of tea between his hands.

Serge follows the match with excitement, knitting his brows, clapping and jumping up from the beginning, swatting in Julian’s direction when he wants to point something out to him -- and Julian realises he only knows all this because he’s watching Serge instead of the screen.

“Oh shit, goal!” Serge calls when it’s barely been ten minutes and grips Julian’s thigh in surprise.

“Yeah, what a good one,” Julian says without a clue, coughs and glances hazily to the screen to figure out who scored. The slo-mo replay shows Ronaldo heading it home between the black and yellow Atletico players.

If somebody asked Julian tomorrow what he thought about the match, he’d say that it was great to watch, because at least that is what he would infer from the way Serge curses and sucks in air sometimes and slaps his hand on Julian’s leg again and again (oddly always finding the naked skin through the stylish knee holes in the jeans).

Ronaldo scores another two, and Serge’s hoodie and shirt ride up both times as he raises his arms in the air.

“It’s gonna be tough for Atletico,” Julian says after the ref blows the final whistle, because even if he was distracted, he’s not lost his grip of reality entirely.

“Ha. Yeah,” Serge replies and takes a sip of his tea that’s certainly cold by now.

For a couple of minutes, they watch the post-match analysis in silence, and Julian actually looks at the TV this time.

“I don’t have a present for you,” Serge says then, abruptly over the pundits talking.

“It’s fine, I mean, you’re here,” Julian says and, when he realises what that sounds like, scrambles to add, “I  _ mean _ , I don’t expect anything. Hanging out is present enough. No that I think you need to give me anything at all! I mean-- Damn. You know what I mean.”

“Sort of.” Serge rubs his neck. “I want to give you something anyway.”

Julian frowns, and Serge inches closer on the couch (not that there was much of a distance before) and turns towards him.

“A present?” Julian asks and deep inside his chest there’s a small, crazy flame of hope that he’s about to find out why Serge showed up on his doorstep today.

Serge shows a smile that’s half an unsure grimace. “I guess you can tell me afterwards.”

Julian wants to reply something, but the words get stuck in his throat as Serge leans forward, head tilted and eyes clear, but half hidden under his eyelids.

Time seems to slow as they move towards each other, Julian’s hand also on Serge’s thigh now, and Julian’s mind plays back a memory from a year ago, a similar situation.

He remembers how tired he was when the penalty shoot-out had come up in Rio, and after it, when it was all over. Serge had grabbed Julian’s medal to look at it instead of his own, and it had inadvertently also pulled Julian closer. He had had the sudden strong want to fall into Serge, to turn this silver gold. But he hadn’t done it, and the moment had been over before he knew it, when Serge had dropped the medal and turned away with a weak smile.

This time, however, his couch much smaller than the Maracanã Stadium, Julian leans in and leans in and leans in, until there’s nowhere else to go anymore and his mouth meets Serge’s.

Serge kisses him open-mouthed, and there is a knot in Julian’s chest that finally loosens.

He feels Serge pull the baseball cap from his head and shove a jittery hand into Julian’s hair.  
Julian in turn isn’t sure what to do with his hands, and he wraps them around Serge’s shoulders. Serge’s lips slide over his and Julian forgets what it’s like not to know how this feels, tickling feeling of Serge’s beard and peppermint taste.

Serge makes a breathy noise and pulls away, letting his hand slide from Julian’s head to his chest. It leaves Julian with a burning feeling on his lips and when he listens hard, the echo of a full stadium cheering in his mind.

“Hey, can you, like, open your eyes at least?” Serge says with a nervous tone, contrast to the bold kiss before. “This is kind of. Uh.”

Julian slowly does open his eyes and blinks a couple of time. It’s real. It’s real that he’s sitting on a couch with Serge, who just kissed him on the mouth. Serge is real, with his stupid worried face, and Julian’s heart thumping in his chest is real.

“You kissed me,” Julian says, Captain Obvious.

“About a year late,” Serge says sheepishly, “but uhm. Yeah.”

“A year late,” Julian repeats. “You mean, you, too--?”

“God yes, the Olympics wrecked me,” Serge interrupts, lets his head fall against Julian’s shoulder and grins into it. “You kissed back.”

Julian flushes and nods slightly. “Serge?”

 Serge looks up, and Julian presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth again, before grabbing his cap of the floor and drawing it backwards over Serge’s head. It’s a good look, he decides.

 “Hey!” Serge objects, but not even half-serious, before his face softens and Julian never wants to let go. “Happy birthday.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking this fic out! Any thoughts about it are appreciated ❤️
> 
> I started writing this fic after the Olympics and it took me long enough to be able to post it, switching things around a lot so it was less out of date, which didn't really work. Meanwhile Serge changed clubs three times, which is probably a record even for a slow writer like me. But I still love the 2016 Olympics so much, and I have so many feelings about the football tournament (golden daughters, silver sons), so I'm super happy that I finished this fic. Huge thanks to Mercy for encouragement.
> 
> \- [here's a gif from the Olympics](http://68.media.tumblr.com/374be5145d1130411e9efa9b129bd0fd/tumblr_oc8hwg2M6q1s8crweo1_400.gif)  
> \- [here's a photo of Julian and his dog](https://www.instagram.com/p/BOxIYPaApZf/)  
> \- here's my [tumblr](http://lahmly.tumblr.com/) and here's my [twitter](https://twitter.com/kissthecrest). come say hi!


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